


Venerated Virginian

by chanderson



Series: Young, Scrappy, and Hungry [3]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Anxiety, Blood and Violence, Domestic Violence, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Death, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Past Character Death, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-17 14:14:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10595694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chanderson/pseuds/chanderson
Summary: “So I’m assuming that I’m looking at an airstrike that may not work, or a raid that may end in dead American soldiers.”“Yes Sir,” Knox, Randolph, and Lee say almost simultaneously.





	1. The Conflict

**Author's Note:**

> The military mission/conflict is partially based off of an episode of Scandal so shout out to Shonda Rhimes.

George is stretched out on one of the couches in the Oval Office, and Alex is sitting on the other, his legs crossed casually. He’s scribbling on a yellow legal pad with his head bowed in concentration. His tongue is just barely peaking out from between his lips. 

“Okay. Do you think we should make a joke about how you like never laugh?”

“I laugh,” George says, feeling a little insulted. “I was literally just laughing two minutes ago.” 

Alex looks up and rolls his eyes. “You never laugh in _public_. Buzzfeed has written a billion articles on it. All of your fangirls—and boys—just want to see you laugh. There are entire Reddit threads dedicated to it.”

“I mean, I don’t have very many opportunities to laugh. I’m not usually talking about very happy, carefree things.”

“You didn’t even laugh when you went and read that story to all those annoying, snotty kids.”

“Hey, they were cute. I actually enjoyed myself that day.”

“Yet you didn’t laugh,” Alex says, stabbing his pen at George. 

George frowns, miffed. “I just don’t really like to laugh in front of too many people. My laugh can be a little much.” 

“Which is what makes it cute and sweet. You should definitely start laughing more. But, _anyway_ , back to your Correspondent’s Dinner speech. I think you should say something like ‘I know Buzzfeed is dying to hear me laugh, so here you go.’ And then you’d laugh, but you’d make it like a really short, obviously not real laugh.” 

“I don’t see why I have to write an entire speech where I pretend to be funny.”

Alex laughs and grins. “Oh my God, that’s perfect. You definitely need to talk about how un-funny you are. Something about how you take everything so literally and seriously, maybe?”

“You know, this isn’t doing much for my self esteem.” 

Alex looks up at him and he shakes his head, snorting. “You are so sensitive; it’s adorable. George, it’s called self-deprecating humor for a reason honey. It’s funny and people like it. I promise.” 

“I don’t see why they do this every year. Doesn’t everyone hate the Correspondent’s Dinner?”

“Yes, which is so fucking Washington. I mean, where else would everyone continually go to an event that they all agree is a stupid, awful waste of time?”

George opens his mouth to respond, but there’s an impatient, loud knock on the door. He frowns and sits up. 

“Come in.”

Lafayette bursts into the room, a strange expression distorting his normally smooth, handsome features. 

“Mr. President, there’s a situation in East Sudan.” he says briskly. “You’re needed in the Situation Room immediately, Sir.” 

George feels his stomach drop and he nods, standing quickly. He brushes his suit down and adjusts his tie.

“Of course.”

Alex stands too, leaving his legal pad on the couch. He clears his throat, and George raises his eyebrows at Lafayette. “Does Alex’s security clearance allow him to be in the room, Gilbert?”

“Yes it does, Sir.”

George nods and motions for Alex to follow them. 

They stride out of the Oval Office, all of them taking long, rushed strides. George can feel his heart hammering in his chest, but it’s in a familiar, almost comforting way. The anxiety currently buzzing under his skin is a manageable anxiety—a mix of adrenaline, determination, and intense concentration. As he practically jogs to the Situation Room, he takes a moment to acknowledge that this is what he was made to do: Take control and command a room, make sharp, difficult decisions.

When they get to the Sit Room, his National Security Council is already assembled, as is Vice President Adams, Angelica Schuyler, and Aaron Burr. They all start to scramble to their feet, but George holds up his hand. 

“Please, everyone sit.” He takes his place at the head of the table, and leans forward, all business. His voice is commanding and steady. “What’s going on?”

“Sir,” Henry Knox, his secretary of defense, says, leaning forward to match George’s posture. “We believe that we have discovered where the East Sudanese president, Nijam Kinyazi is hiding. We’re fairly confident that he is hiding in a compound outside Yanbu, Saudi Arabia.”

“We’re _fairly_ confident?” George asks, a bit of a hard edge in his voice. “Is he there or not? I’d like to know that we’re not just wasting resources or, possibly, American lives on a hunch.” George starts to bounce his leg, and he has to fight the urge to stand up and start pacing. 

“We’re fairly confident in our intelligence, Sir,” Knox repeats, his words slow and obviously carefully chosen. George can feel anger burning red hot in his stomach and he has to take a deep breath to calm himself down. He doesn’t need to lose his temper right now.

“Again, Henry, what does fairly confident mean? Is he there or not?” His voice is still sharp.

“Sir,” Edmund Randolph, his secretary of state, jumps in a little nervously, shooting Knox a look. “Our intelligence is as accurate as it’s going to get. These missions are often gambles, Sir.”

George grits his teeth and drums his fingers apprehensively on the table. “What options are we looking at?”

“It’s either an airstrike or we send in a SEAL team to capture and kill,” says Charles Lee, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. 

“So I’m assuming that I’m looking at an airstrike that may not work, or a raid that may end in dead American soldiers.”

“Yes Sir,” Knox, Randolph, and Lee say almost simultaneously. 

“How much time do I have to decide?” George asks. 

“At most two days, Sir,” Randolph says.

George nods tersely. “Okay. I’ll try to make my decision quickly.”

“Here are all the reports and briefs, Sir.” Knox slides him a thick stack of folders and documents. 

“Thank you Henry.” George pushes his chair back and stands. Everyone else stands too, their faces hard and apprehensive. 

George leaves the Sit Room, relieved to finally be able to move. “Adams, Gilbert, Alex, Angelica, Burr, Pickering” he calls over his shoulder. “Please join me in the office.” 

Timothy Pickering, his national security advisor, falls in step beside him. “Don’t mind Knox, Sir,” he says quietly. “He likes to downplay the intelligence reports. I’m fairly confident in what we’re looking at.”

“What do you think is going to be the best option, then?” George asks as they walks into the Oval Office. He immediately sits down in one of the chairs next to the couches. 

“I’m leaning toward capture and kill, Sir,” Pickering says as he lowers himself onto one of the couches. 

“I don’t know, Mr. President, that feels like a big gamble,” Vice President Adams says. He sits in the chair to George’s right and pulls out a handkerchief to mop up the sweat on his face. 

“The airstrikes might not work, though,” Alex pipes up from his spot next to Lafayette on the couch. “And then it would be a huge waste. Kinyazi would just escape again and find a better hiding place. The capture and kill option is way more controlled and more likely to work.”

Adams shoots George an annoyed look and huffs. “Well, Alexander, that is an excellent opinion coming from the speechwriter, but how about you leave the policy issues to the politicians in the room, Son.”

“John,” George snaps. “Don’t speak to my staff that way.” 

“Sir,” Lafayette cuts in smoothly. “I’m also more confident in a capture and kill strategy.”

“That sounds good at face value,” Angelica says. “But, if I may, Sir, I think I’ll play the devil’s advocate here. What if the intelligence is faulty? Then we’re putting American soldiers in unnecessary danger,” Angelica says. “Knox didn’t sound very confident.”

“I was telling the president on the way over here that Knox always downplays the intelligence. He is a very cautious man,” Pickering says. 

Angelica shrugs. “It might not hurt to be cautious.”

“Caution never got anyone anywhere,” Alex retorts. “I mean, not to be crass, but soldiers enlist in the military with the knowledge that they may have to sacrifice their lives for their country. Sometimes soldiers die. In this case, I think we may have to, well, ‘break a few eggs to make an omelet,’” Alex says, using air quotes.

George’s stomach twists at Alex’s words and he has to swallow down the acidic bile that rises in his throat. Alex is right, of course, but it doesn’t make it any better. 

“Sadly, I think Alex is right,” George says, trying to keep his voice even and commanding. “I’m going to take some more time to think on this, but you’re all dismissed.” 

George can feel a headache blooming at the base of his skull and his stomach is churning uneasily as the adrenaline starts to leave his system, leaving him feeling tired and strung out. 

Everyone stands and nods at George before wordlessly filing out of the room. George moves from the chair to the couch and stretches back out. He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Alex,” George says to his retreating back. “Can I speak to you for a second?” 

Alex turns and nods. “Of course, Mr. President.”

Alex waits until the door is closed and walks over to the couch. He hesitates for a second before prodding George to sit up so he can sit down. George lays back down and adjusts so his head is resting comfortably in Alex’s lap. 

“I honestly don’t really know what to do, Alex,” George says. Saying the words out loud only intensifies his headache and makes his stomach churn uneasily. 

“You’ve got a couple of days to figure it out,” Alex says, annoyed. George knows Alex too well, knows that he’s still smarting from Adams’ insult. 

George heaves a sigh and squeezes his eyes shut against the light. “I’m sorry about Adams.” 

George feels Alex tense up, can feel the jolt of anger that surges through his body. George knows he’s in for one of Alex’s impassioned, venomous tirades. 

“He’s such a fucking asshole,” Alex spits. “I mean, who the fuck does he think he is? He’s only sitting in here because you took pity on him and the DNC pushed him at you. He’s an idiot and doesn’t deserve to sit here. I’m smarter than he is, but he has the nerve to speak to me like I’m some child?” Alex is speaking fast, his words sharp as a razor’s edge. “I would love to kick his stupid, fat ass.”

“Alex,” George sighs. “You shouldn’t sink to personal attacks.” 

“Oh please, George,” Alex snaps. “Don’t try to play a saint and give me that bullshit lecture. I’ve heard you say the same exact thing about Adams before.” 

George reaches up and pinches the bridge of his nose again, wincing at a particularly sharp stab of pain. 

“That was before I was president. I can’t do stuff like that now.”

“Right, I forgot you have to be Mr. Diplomacy,” Alex says sarcastically. “Or, more accurately put, Mr. I’m too Big of a Baby to State My Opinions because it Might Upset My Political Enemies,” Alex says acerbically. 

George does his best to hide the hurt that twists in his chest. Alex can be vicious when you cross him, and sometimes George forgets how bad it feels to be on the receiving end. 

Normally George would fire right back, but he’s exhausted. The rush of adrenaline and hyper-focus is completely gone, and George feels awful—achy, tired, nauseous, and weary.

George sits up and stands, needing to put distance between them. He walks over to stand by the windows, clasping his hands behind his back. He gazes out the window, watching the roses in the Rose Garden sway in the wind.

“It’s part of the job,” George says as patiently as possible. “Everything I say has repercussions. My words can literally move marketplaces, Alex. I can start wars with a single sentence. I can’t afford to speak my mind anymore.” 

“Oh bullshit,” Alex snaps. 

George can feel his resolve start to crumble. His hands are shaking, and he clenches and unclenches his fists anxiously.

“Why are you trying to start a fight with me, Alex? Did I do something to make you mad? Because I don’t understand why you’re yelling at me, and I really don’t appreciate it,” George says, trying to go about this as diplomatically as possible. 

“I’m pissed because you tiptoe your way around fucking _everything_. You’ve turned into your regular, run-of-the-mill spin-game politicians. Good job.”

George’s resolve is now laying at his feet, nothing more than a pile of rubble. He spins around and stalks up to Alex, getting in his space. 

“I’m sorry that I can’t just say whatever the fuck is on mind. You don’t think that I want to tell Adams to go fuck himself whenever he talks badly about you? Or passive aggressively insults me?” George jabs his finger into Alex’s chest. “Do you seriously think that I don’t want to kick my own ass for appointing Henry fucking Knox as my secretary of defense?” George can feel his vision turning red with anger. His chest is heaving and spittle is flying out of his mouth as he speaks. “You don’t know what it’s like to be president, Alex, so please don’t lecture me on it and the ways in which I conduct myself.” 

George steps away from Alex, walk to the other side of the room. He stares into the fireplace, trying to calm the erratic, uncomfortable beating of his heart. 

“If you need me I’ll be in my office, Mr. President,” Alex says snidely before leaving, closing the door a little harder than necessary. It sends a bolt of pain straight to his head and George winces. 

He wants to throw something and briefly contemplates how good it would feel to throw one of his crystal lowball glasses at the wall. Instead, he walks through the connecting doors and small hallway to Lafayette’s office. He knocks once before Lafayette comes to the door. 

“Mr. President?” he asks, looking a little confused. “I could’ve come to the Oval Office if you needed me, Sir.” 

“I can’t… I need to—”

“Get out of this fucking white building?” Lafayette deadpans.

“Exactly,” George laughs. “Yes.”

“Go. I doubt the country will crumble while you take a couple of hours for yourself. I’ll tell Tallmadge.”

“Thank you, Gilbert.” 

\---

George’s chest is burning, but he keeps going, relying on the methodical slap of his feet on the pavement to distract him from the thoughts swirling in his head. Each step sends a jolt of pain straight to his head, but he’s come to expect the pain, and it grounds him, a physical reminder that he’s here on earth, not floating away untethered into the abyss. 

Tallmadge and Tilghman run with him, flanking him a few steps back to give him the notion of privacy. They breathe in tandem behind George, panting as hard as he is. 

George lost track of how long he’s been running, and his body is most definitely telling him to stop, but his mind pushes him on. His thoughts are too fast, too disjointed, and if he stops, he won’t be able to stop them from drowning him. 

But a particularly strong jolt of pain stabs George’s head and he comes to a sudden stop, leaning over with his hands on his knees. His chest is burning and he feels a little lightheaded. There’s an uneasy roiling in his stomach and George tastes acidic bile in the back of his throat. 

“Sir? Is everything okay?” Tallmadge approaches him slowly. “I think it may be time to call it a day, Sir. You’ve been running for a while, and I know that you’re very much in shape Mr. President, but you’re looking a little peaky.” 

“Hold on,” George gasps. “Just give me a second guys.” George continues to take big, gulping breaths, and he tries to swallow against the unsettling nausea churning in his stomach. 

“Of course, Sir,” Tallmadge says and takes a few steps back.

George groans and grabs his stomach as his muscles spasm painfully. “Can you guys look away for a second?” he gasps before he gags and throws up on the White House running track, narrowly missing his favorite running shoes.

“Mr. President,” Tallmadge says apprehensively. “We need to get you inside, Sir.” 

“I’m fine,” George snaps before leaning over and throwing up again. 

He’s sick two more times before he decides that his stomach is settled enough to go back inside. 

As they walk, Tallmadge starts barking orders about water and cooling rags and a bunch of other shit that George doesn’t want to deal with.

“Tallmadge I’m fine. I just got a little sick. It happens to everyone,” George says, his tone sharp and acidic. “I just want to take a shower and go to sleep. Is that too much to ask for?”

“With all due respect, Sir, you look dehydrated and we need to make sure we rehydrate you before you do anything else.”

“I just want to sleep!” George practically shouts, and he has to resist the urge to stomp his foot like a petulant child. “I have a headache, Alexander is pissed at me for no fucking reason, and I have to decide whether or not I want send a team of SEALs to Saudi Arabia to possibly _die_. I just want to sleep so I don’t have to think about any of this anymore.” 

“I know, Sir. How about we just take you to the Residence and you can tend to yourself. We’ll leave the water and cooling rags in there with you, and we can send in someone to check on you later.” 

“Thank you,” George mutters once they get back to the White House. 

“Of course, Mr. President.” 

\---

George strips out of his sweat soaked clothes and collapses on top of his bed, shivering. He knows he needs to shower, but he’s so tired all he wants to do is curl up and never wake up. He’s not normally a fan of sleeping nude, but he decides today is an exception. 

It’s only about four in the afternoon, but George’s head is throbbing painfully, and the Advil he keeps taking doesn’t seem to be helping, so sleep is his last solution. He chugs some of the water they left on his bedside table before curling up in the soft, expensive sheets. 

He’s almost asleep when his bedside phone rings. 

“Leave me alone,” he groans to the empty bedroom. He blindly gropes for the phone and manages to pick it up. “Hello?” he asks, trying to keep his voice calm and level. 

“Mr. President, it’s Alex. I needed to consult with you on something, but your secretary told me you weren’t feeling and left for the day. Do you think it would be okay if I came and went over this with you in the Residence?”

“Of course,” George says. He knows that he should still be mad at Alex for blowing up at him earlier, but he’s never been able to stay mad at Alex for very long.

When Alex walks in, George is half asleep again, his eyelids heavy. 

“George, what’s wrong? Tallmadge said you were sick to your stomach. Are you worried about Kinyazi?” Alex asks as he strides into the room.

George groans and sits up, adjusting the blankets so his crotch is covered. Not that Alex would care, it would just be a little weird considering they’re technically at work. 

“I mean, yes, but that’s not why I threw up. I just got nauseous after running a little too hard. It happens.” George shrugs. “Now I’m just tired.”

Alex sits on the edge of the bed and picks at his cufflinks. 

“Okay, that’s good. I was worried you were coming down with something.” Alex places a comforting hand on one of George’s legs, the heat of his skin seeping through the blankets. Alex takes a deep breath, and his eyes flicker over to George’s; his gaze is full of uncertainty. “I’m sorry about earlier,” he says carefully. “I was just pissed off and frustrated. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

“It’s okay.” George places a hand on Alex’s shoulder and squeezes it gently. “I’m not mad.”

They’re both quiet for a few seconds before Alex speaks back up.

“Do you know what you’re going to do about Kinyazi?” he asks quietly. 

George sighs and rubs at his forehead, willing the pain to go away. 

“I have no fucking idea what to do. This is my first big military decision, and I’m terrified I’m going to fuck it up. Then everyone will see that I’m not the right man for the job.”

“Do you still think you’re not the right man for the job? You really think Jefferson would be doing a better job than you are?”

“I don’t know. I honestly don’t really want to talk about it right now. I’ve got,” George pauses, trying to organize this thoughts. “I’ve got too many things in my head right now, and I can’t deal with it, so I need to sleep so I can be the president that you need me to be.”

“Are you anxious?” Alex asks quietly. 

“Yes, but that’s also confusing.”

“What do you mean?” Alex pulls his suit jacket off and toes off his shoes. 

“I, well, this morning in the Sit Room I felt invincible, but that didn’t mean that I wasn’t anxious. It was like a good anxiety, if that makes any sense. I was the Commander in Chief completely in control. That room was mine to own and command, and that felt great. I love doing that, calling the shots and taking control of a situation; it’s my favorite part of being president. It’s what I’m good at, but as soon as that adrenaline high wears off, I’m left with a tough choice, a headache, and a unsettling, anxious sick feeling that I can’t seem to shake.”

Alex crawls over George and slides under the blankets. 

“Let me hold you for a little bit,” he murmurs. 

“Okay, but just warning you, I’m naked.” 

“George, baby, I would’ve worn my good underwear if I would’ve known you’d be putting on a show for me.” 

George laughs and lays down, relaxing a little once Alex pulls him close.

“You always know how to make me laugh,” George muses, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

“It’s my specialty,” Alex quips. 

“Yeah,” George says softly before falling silent. He closes his eyes and tries to stop thinking of military strategy and the faces of young men who might die because of him. He’s been that young, fresh faced soldier terrified of being sent on a mission, an imminent death looming in the distance. Sure, he joined the military knowing he might die, but that didn’t mean that he wanted to. 

“Hey, what’re you thinking about?” Alex asks softly. “You’re so tense, baby. Try to relax.”

“I can’t relax. I close my eyes and see military briefs on the backs of my eyelids. I don’t want to send a bunch of kids to their deaths, Alex.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to ‘crack a few eggs to make an omelet.’ These aren’t eggs; they’re people.”

“Yeah, but George, these are well-trained soldiers. They know what they signed up for.”

“I know what I signed up for, but that didn’t mean that I wanted to be sent on a mission that might kill me.”

Alex heaves a sigh and kisses George’s shoulder, his lips warm on George’s bare skin. 

“We can’t pass up this opportunity, though. We may not get another chance to get Kinyazi. Imagine what a boost that would be domestically and internationally.”

“Lets not talk about it anymore, okay? I’m going to think about it more tomorrow. I can’t talk about it anymore today. I already feel like someone is slowly shoving an icepick into my head, and talking about all of this isn’t helping.”

“I’m sorry.” Alex sounds genuinely remorseful as he kisses the shell of George’s ear. 

He starts to trace gentle designs on George’s stomach, and he presses his face into the crook of George’s neck. “Try to get some sleep honey. Things will look better tomorrow.”

George falls asleep to Alex’s arms warm and heavy around him. 

\---

George’s eyes snap open and his body flies into a sitting position. He takes huge, gasping breaths as his heart beats wildly against his ribcage. The room is dark and he’s alone in the bed. He’s still naked, and he’s drenched in a cold sweat. He shifts uncomfortably in the sweat soaked sheets.

He reaches over and checks the time on his cellphone. It’s just after 3 a.m. 

George rubs his forehead, trying to hold onto the last fleeting wisps of his dream. He was a soldier again, but Alex was there with him. Somehow George knows that they were part of the SEAL team that he would most likely be sending to the compound, even though the specifics of the dream are fading.

The most vivid portion of the dream, though, he remembers in perfect clarity. 

He’d watched Alex die, blown up with a flash and a bang, his body bursting into a million pieces. The blast knocked George back, throwing him into the wall as he watched Alex die. George feels sick and momentarily considers getting up to go sit by the toilet in case he has to vomit.

Instead, he goes to the bathroom to take a shower, but he’s so tired that he ends up sitting on the ground, letting the war pour down on him. 

“Martha, I really don’t know what to do,” he says softly, a little timidly. “I don’t want to send people to their deaths, but I also really need to get this guy. I mean, he ordered the genocide of innocent children. That kind of sick fuck doesn’t deserve to be alive, but what if the intelligence is wrong? What if I monumentally fuck this up and send people to their deaths?” 

George rubs his temples and sighs. “And on top of that, Alexander and I fought again today. I don’t know if it’s rude to talk to you about him, but I’d like to think that you’re happy for me and approve of him. He’s amazing, but we’ve been fighting a lot more recently. I think he’s annoyed that he’s only my speechwriter. But, I mean, that’s the job he applied for when he joined the campaign, so naturally that’s the job he maintained. I suppose I could make him a top aid and hire a new speechwriter, but I know he’d just get pissy and butt heads with whoever I hired to replace him as head speechwriter. It’s all very confusing.” 

George rests his forehead on his knees, suddenly feeling very overwhelmed by all of his duties and his emotions. “I’m not going to have another panic attack,” George says firmly. “I haven’t had one since the inaugural ball. So far I’ve been handling the whole being president thing fairly well. We already got that gun control bill through the House, which was a big goal of mine. I’ve been president for what, like 30 days I think. So that’s pretty nice.” 

The water is starting to run cold, so George wearily pulls himself to his feet and twist the water off. He gets out and towels himself off, but all of his limbs suddenly feel impossibly heavy and he has to sit down on the closed toilet seat to take a rest.

“Do you think I’m a good president, Martha?” he asks the empty bathroom, closing his eyes and trying to imagine her standing in front of him with her arms crossed and an eyebrow cocked. She would give him a knowing look—she could always read him like a book—and pull him up into a hug. Then she would tell him to quit moping and just make the damn decision already. He can picture it so clearly: Her tenderly cradling his head to her chest while also chastising him sharply, but not unkindly. 

“George Washington,” she would say, holding onto his shoulders and forcing him to look into her eyes. “Quit moping around. Don’t you have better things to do? That scowl doesn’t look good on that pretty face of yours.” She would cup his cheek and rub the frown out of the corners of his mouth with the soft pad of her thumb. 

“I can’t help it,” he would say. “I don’t know what to do about this Kinyazi situation.”

“George, you were in the army. You need to think strategically. Don’t let all of those emotions of yours cloud your judgement.”

“But I could be sending people to their deaths.”

“And that’s the price of these kinds of conflicts, love. You know that.” She would tip his chin up and kiss him gently, her smooth lips warm and full against his own. “I believe in you, and I know you’ll end up making the right decision. You’re president for a reason.”

Then they would go back to bed and Martha would let him wrap her in his arms, burying his face in her slender neck. 

George doesn’t realize he’s crying until he licks his lips and tastes salt. He quickly wipes at his eyes and sniffs. 

He shakily stands up and reminds himself of what he knows.

Martha is dead. Alex is here. He is president.


	2. The Mission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to warn you, this chapter has some mentions of domestic violence/child abuse, alcoholism, the f-slur, and some descriptions of violence/gore (they're not overly intense though).

The temperature in the Sit Room feels like it's about 100 degrees, and George can feel a bead of sweat trickling down the back of his neck. He fidgets nervously, picking up his pen and spinning it in his fingers. It slips out of his grasp and clatters onto the table, breaking the tense silence in the room. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs. He picks the pen back up and sets it down beside him. 

“Sir, are you _sure_ you want to go with capture and kill?” Adams asks for about the one hundredth time. George grinds his jaw and reminds himself to stay calm. 

“Yes, John. I’m absolutely sure.”

“Alright, Sir.” He pauses. “Just be ready to greet some coffins when they’re loaded off the plane,” he says snidely. 

George’s jaw snaps closed in an audible click and he feels anger burning low in his belly. 

“What?” he snaps. 

“Sir,” Lafayette says, his voice a low warning. George whips his head over to glare at Lafayette. 

“Vice President Adams,” George says, his voice dropping low, threatening Adams, challenging him to test George. “Why don’t you just tell me what you’ve been dying to say throughout this whole affair,” George sneers. “Just fucking say it already.”

“Sir,” Lafayette says sharply. “This is not the time.”

“No, no. It’s fine, Lafayette,” Adams says evenly, staring at George. “I believe that the president and I should be completely transparent with each other.” 

The tension in the room is so thick that George could cut it with a knife, and George is now dripping with sweat. The other people around the table are glancing at each other nervously. 

“Then tell me, Adams,” George growls. “Get it off your chest.”

“I think you are a young man playing dress up. You’re in over your head. Your youth and your inexperience are keeping you from making a proper decision, because you don’t know what you’re doing.”

George’s vision goes red, and he hears Alex and Lafayette suck in sharp breaths. George shoves his chair back and stands up, slamming his hands on the table. 

“Oh really?” he asks, his voice slowly rising in volume. “Why aren’t you sitting here, then? You didn’t even get past Super Tuesday,” George spits. “And tell me about _your_ military career, John? Did you bleed for your country? Did you watch your friends die by your side? Did you get sick at night thinking about all the men you killed?” Spittle is flying from George’s mouth as he starts to shout, his voice booming in the small, contained room. 

Adams looks rebuffed, his delicate pride obviously cracked. 

“You are not equipped for this job,” he says with barely masked rage. “Your arguably admirable military career does not change that fact.”

“Sorry I’m not one of your good old boys, but I am the president, _not_ you. So I would appreciate it if you started to treat me with some respect.” George straightens up and stands there staring at the table. His chest is heaving; he’s never felt more out of control of himself in his life. 

“Sir, how about we reconvene tonight when it’s time for the strike,” Lafayette says gently, standing to put a warm, comforting hand on George’s shoulder. 

George nods and turns sharply, flinging the door open. He slams it shut and walks to the Oval Office. Lafayette, Angelica, Alex, and Aaron jog up to him. 

“Mr. President, I’m going to get you some water,” Angelica says, forever the mother hen. 

“Thank you.” 

He shoves into the Oval Office and shakily pours himself a glass of bourbon. He starts to pace angrily.

“Sir, is it really in your best interest to drink at noon?” Aaron asks. 

“I can drink a glass of bourbon if I want,” George snaps. Aaron physically recoils and nods. 

Angelica walks in with a bottle of water and a rag. “Here you go Mr. President. How about you sit down for a second,” she says gently. George nods and drops down onto the couch, shakily placing the bourbon on the side table. Angelica presses the water bottle into his hands and sets the rag next to him. 

George unscrews the cap and tips his head back, chugging several long sips of the water. He uses the rag to mop up the sweat pouring down his face. 

“I can’t fucking believe he said that to you,” Alex finally snaps. George looks up at his boy and his eyes are flashing, possessive and outraged. “He can’t speak to you that way.”

“Alex, lets all just calm down a little,” Lafayette says. “Mr. President, you’re sweating, would you like me to tell Betsy to get you a new shirt?”

“Yes please.” George flings his coat off and loosens his tie, his throat suddenly feeling constricted. 

He sits there for a second, letting his head hang down. Alex carefully drapes the rag over the back of his neck and rubs away some of the sweat. 

Lafayette clears his throat, and Alex’s hand is immediately gone, back to resting in his lap. 

“Sir, you know that Adams is wrong, right?” Lafayette finally says after a few minutes of tense, uncomfortable silence.

“Yes,” George lies, his mother’s voice taunting him in the back of his head. Adams and his mother’s words blend together, forming a monstrous stream of thoughts that leave his stomach churning and the back of his neck prickling.

“Okay, Mr. President.”

“Sir, I need to go do the briefing. I’m assuming we won’t be mentioning the operation.”

“Yes. Thank you Aaron.”

Aaron nods and darts out of the room.

“I don’t want Adams in the Sit Room tonight,” George says, finally looking up at his advisors and friends. “I won’t be able to handle that. I need a clear head tonight, and I won’t be able to maintain that with him there.”

“Of course, Sir,” Angelica says immediately. “I’m going to meet with Adam’s chief of staff right now.” Angelica is technically ranked lower than Lafayette as the deputy chief of staff, but she has a sharp tongue and is the best negotiator in his entire administration.

“Thank you, Angelica. Try not to literally rip Eacker’s throat out.”

“No promises, Sir.” She smirks and leaves the room.

“Sir, I’m going to my office," Lafayette says. "I have some matters to attend to with Congressman Madison.”

George nods and shares a meaningful look with his closest friend. 

Now it’s only Alex and him, and he can feel the crackling, lightning-like anger radiating off of Alex’s tense shoulders. 

“Alex,” George says tiredly. “It’s over. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

Alex blows out a frustrated puff of air, but remains silent. He simply slides over and puts his arm around George’s waist and places a gentle kiss on George’s shoulder. 

There’s a knock at the door, and Alex quickly scoots away. 

“Come in,” George says. Betsy, his secretary, sticks her head in. “I’ve got your shirt, Sir.”

“Thank you Betsy.” He pulls himself to his feet and takes it from her. 

She nods and closes the door softly behind her. George walks back over to the couch and starts to unbutton his shirt, but Alex stops him, grabbing his hands. 

“Let me,” he murmurs. “Your hands are still shaking, honey.” 

Alex deftly unbuttons his shirt and tosses it onto the couch. He gently dries George off with the rag, moping up the remaining sweat before helping George into his shirt. He buttons it up and lets George tuck it in. 

“Thank you,” George sighs. He drops heavily onto the couch and closes his eyes.  “I shouldn’t have lost my temper like that. I acted like a child. Honestly, I practically proved Adams’ point.”

“No you didn’t,” Alex says automatically, his voice sharp. “Adams is a sniveling, prideful idiot. He knows absolutely nothing about foreign policy or military strategy.”

George sighs. All he wants to do is nap, but presidents don’t normally get to nap in the middle of the day, so he wearily stands up and sits behind his desk. 

“I need to get some work done. I’ll see you later.”

“Alright. I’ll start drafting an address for you to make after the operation that we can fill in with the information after it’s complete.”

“Thank you.”

Alex nods and presses a gentle kiss to his temple before walking out.

George is finally left with complete silence, alone with his racing thoughts. He stares at the bill in front of him and opens it up, sighing at the small print and massive number of pages. 

He really does try to read it, too, but he can’t concentrate on anything other than Adams’ sharp words and his mother’s disapproving stare. Her scowl is ingrained in his memory, seared onto the delicate membrane of his brain like an iron branding. He holds his head in his hands and closes his eyes, tries to will away the memories.  

**~~~~~~~**

“George!” his mother shouted, her thundering footsteps loud in the echoing hallways. “Where the fuck have you been?”

He scowled and pulled the blanket up over himself as if that would stop his mother from finding him lying in his bed.

He went out with friends after the football game to celebrate their win. He knew he would be late, but he figured his mother would be passed out on the couch by now. 

Of course, he didn’t tell his friends that part. 

George’s door flew open and his mother stood in the doorway, her facial expression dark and stormy. 

“Do I need to repeat myself?” she asked, her words slurred. George sat up in bed and shookhis head, jutting his lip out in defiance. 

“I went out with friends,” he said evenly, staring at a spot above her head.

His mother stalked into the room and grabbed his arm, jerking him out of bed. 

“Get out of that damn bed and look at me when I speak to you,” she snapped. 

George stumbled out of the bed, checking the nightstand with his hip. He grimaced in pain, but quickly covered it up.

He could smell the alcohol thick on her breath. She was drinking something hard tonight, not the fruity wine he usually smelled on her. Brandy, maybe?

“Look at me,” she said, grabbing his cheeks and jerking his head to face her. He stared into her dark, bloodshot eyes, noted the black smudges underneath them. She looked older up close. The wrinkles digging trenches across her forehead and lips were easier to see. They were the wounds she’d acquired through her time spent dancing with death. First his father, now his brother—his best friend.

“I went out with friends,” George said, his words garbled due to the tight grip she still had on his cheeks, shoving the thin skin into the sides of his teeth. 

“Did I tell you that you could go out with friends?” she shouted, spit flying from her mouth and landing on George’s cheek. He itched to wipe it off, but knew not to move.

“No ma’am,” he said, “but I thought you wouldn’t mind.” His voice came out shakier than he would have liked.

“Oh you did? You thought I wouldn’t mind?” she asked, her voice taunting. “Where’d you get that idea?” She finally let go of his mouth, and used her hand to shove at his chest, sending him stumbling back until the bedside table was digging into the small of his back.

“I’m sorry,” he said, trying to steady his voice. He felt the tears pricking at his eyes and tried desperately to blink them away before his mother noticed. 

But she always noticed. 

“Oh, are you going to cry now?” she asked, laughing. Anxiety coiled like a rattlesnake in George’s stomach and he swallowed down the bile that splashed against the back of his throat. 

“No ma’am,” he said, but his body betrayed him and a tear tangled in his eyelashes before running down his face. 

“You never could stand up for yourself, George. Your brother could. You remember how strong and brave Lawrence was?” She shoved at him again, and his back started to ache where the hard wood was pressed against it. “You’re nothing like your brother, you know that right? Your brother was a soldier, a real man. You? All you do is mope around and go to school making shit grades and ride the bench for the football team. I’m ashamed to tell people you’re my son. If Lawrence were here I wouldn’t have to.”

George whimpered and two more tears dripped down his face. His mother’s eyes flashed and she drew her hand back. 

She slapped him so hard that his head snapped to the side, sending spit flying. He stumbled and nearly fell to the ground. He made a choking, surprised noise as he straightened up, cradling his red, smarting cheek.

“I’m glad your father isn’t alive to see this,” she said. “If the heart attack hadn’t kill him, then surely seeing his faggot son sniveling and crying would.” 

George’s stomach dropped and his knees buckled. He dropped down to the floor and looked up at his mother. He tried to suppress a sob. 

“That’s right,” she snarled. “I know all about your little boyfriend. What’s his name? Henry, right? I’m not stupid, George. Lawrence would never do something so disgraceful.” 

She stared at him for a few more seconds before shaking her head and turning away. She slammed his door so hard that it rattled on its hinges. 

George used the edge of his bedside table to pull himself to his feet. He felt nauseous, dizzy, and shaky. His vision swam in front of him. 

He took a few minutes to compose himself, breathing deeply in and out, trying to calm the erratic beating of his heart.

He stared at the calendar he had tacked up on his wall. 

It was the one year anniversary of his brother’s death.

**~~~~~~~**

“Mr. President?” Someone touches George’s shoulder and he whips his head up from where he’s been staring blankly at the same page, completely lost in his thoughts. 

Betsy is hovering hesitantly beside him, nervously chewing her lip. 

“Yes?” George asks, rubbing his eyes in the vain attempt to snap himself out of his dazed confusion. 

“Angelica Schuyler is here to see you.”

“Right, of course. Send her in,” he says, his voice sounding far away.

Angelica walks into the room and gives him a strange look, cocking her head to the side. 

“Are you okay, Sir? You’re looking a little ‘green around the gills,’ she says, accenting her words with air quotes. 

“I’m fine. What do you need? Did you talk to Eacker?”

“Yes Sir.” She sits down on the couch and delicately crosses her long, slender legs. “He’s not budging. Adams is gonna have to be in the Sit Room tonight.”

George grinds his teeth, feeling the sharp tendrils of anger start to wipe away the fogginess in his head. 

“Did you tell Eacker that he needs to remember who his boss works for?” George asks. 

“Yes Sir,” Angelica says with a rueful, thin lipped grimace.

“Well isn’t this just fucking perfect?” George snaps. Angelica doesn’t respond, doesn’t even flinch. She just sits there patiently, her kind, knowing eyes trained on George’s face.

“Would you like me to get Alex for you?” she finally asks. George looks over at her, his eyebrows knitting in confusion. 

“Why? It’s not like I need to make a speech. Although, I’m sure Alex would love that.”

“I only ask because, well, I’ve noticed that…” Angelica trails off as she seems to choose her next words very carefully. “A lot of us have noticed that you always seem to be in a better mood when Alex is around. I thought you might want him here to offer some comfort. You seem really upset.” Angelica looks him right in the eye, daring him to refute her. George’s Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows nervously. 

“I’m fi—”

“Oh don’t give me that crap. How long have I known you? How many hours have we spent cramped up together in small quarters during stressful situations. You are definitely upset, and you have always been a horrible liar.” 

George’s shoulders slump and he stares at his desk. 

“I would appreciate it if you got Alex for me,” he says softly.

“That’s what I thought,” she says, all business, but with a kind undertone that George has come to recognize fondly. 

“He’ll be here shortly.” 

Angelica leaves the room, the clicking of her heels muffled by the rug.

** \--- **

George is hunched over his desk reading the plan his joint chiefs came up with—Operation Hornet’s Nest—thinking of any ways he may want to tweak it. He’s thinking that a six-man SEAL team may work better than just five. He scrawls this in the margins.

“Mr. President?” Betsy sticks her head into the office. “Mr. Hamilton is here to see you.”

“Right. Thanks Betsy; send him in.”

Alex comes in with a stack of papers under his arms, most likely for appearance’s sake.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Angelica said you looked upset.” He walks over and puts a soothing hand on George’s cheek. “I think she phrased it: ‘He’s getting mopey again with that sad little hurt puppy look on his face.’” His voice is teasing, but George doesn’t manage to laugh. 

“I’m just stressed. Adams is adamant about being in the Sit Room tonight, and I don’t know about this operation. I’m thinking we need to send in a team of six, but that’s one more life on the line.”

Alex moves his hand to the back of George’s neck and squeezes it gently. “I think that you just need to go with your intuition and what you think is the right thing to do. Act decisively; I know you can do it.”

“There’s a difference between being decisive and being impatient or irrational.”

“George, you very rarely do anything irrational; you’re usually like super thoughtful about stuff. But at some point you just have to trust in yourself and your ability to make the right decision.” 

George heaves a sigh and nods. “I know.” 

“So six or five? Choose,” Alex says. He steps away from George and stares at him, arching an eyebrow. “Don’t think about it, just tell me.”

“Six,” George says quickly. Alex’s lips turn up into a small smile. 

“Perfect. I suggest notifying Lee immediately.” 

George nods and makes the call, detailing his decision. When he hangs up, Alex is stretched out on the couch. 

“We’ll be going into the Sit Room soon. Everyone has to be briefed beforehand.”

“Are you nervous?” Alex sits back up and watches George, his expression unreadable. 

“I’m terrified.”

Alex’s face softens and he beckons George over. “Let me hold you for a little bit.”

George gets up and takes his suit coat off, hanging it on the back of his chair. Alex stretches back out on the couch, and George squishes on with him, a little worried he might roll off the couch. 

“This isn’t the biggest couch in the world. Aren’t I smushing you?” 

“Nope.” Alex’s arms snake around George’s waist, and he holds George like a teddybear. George feels Alex’s breath hot on the back of his neck.

George lets his eyes slip closed, and wishes that he could stop the doubt and uncertainty eating away at him. He takes a deep breath and tries to center himself. Alex’s arms squeeze him a little tighter. 

“You’re so tense baby. Try to relax. I know you’ve like literally got the weight of the world on your shoulders, but try to relax with me for just a few minutes.”

George sighs and nods. “Okay. I’ll try.” 

Alex idly rubs George’s stomach and places light kisses on the back of his neck. 

George can feel his eyes getting heavy, and he’s almost asleep when the door connecting the Oval Office to Lafayette’s office is pushed open.

“Mr. Pres—Oh, I… I’ll come back.”

George jerks himself out of Alex’s arms so fast that he falls onto the floor with a thud. He groans and pushes himself up onto his arms. 

“No, Gilbert, listen.”

Lafayette holds a hand up and fixes him with a pointed look. “Mr. President, I do not want to know. Please don’t try to explain yourself. I would like to maintain my deniability.”

George stands up and brushes his shirt down. “No, please—”

“We need to go to the Sit Room. I suggest you get your coat.”

“Gilbert,” George shouts. “ _Wait_.” He turns and looks at Alex. “Go to the Sit Room. Tell everyone that Lafayette and I will be there soon.” 

Alex nods and turns, hurrying out of the office as quickly as he can. 

“Mr. President, I’m serious. I don’t want to have this conversation with you.”

“I don’t care.” George sits down on the couch and motions for Lafayette to sit down across from him. “You’re my best friend. I can’t go into that room and order a military operation that may end in the deaths of American troops knowing that you’re mad at me. I’m going to need you with me in there.”

“Mr. President—”

“George. Just call me George. Please. No one else is here. It’s just us.”

Lafayette nods and crosses his legs. “Okay, then, George, I had my suspicions about you and Alex on the campaign trail. I approached him about it, but he was adamant that nothing was going on.” Lafayette rubs his chin and shifts his weight. “Look, I don’t care if you and Alex are fucking. I don’t care if he’s the one who helps you feel better when you get in one of your sad, self loathing moods. I like Alex, and I think he’s great for you. He very clearly makes you happy; we’ve all noticed that, but you have to be careful. You can’t just lay around spooning on the couch in the Oval Office. And you most definitely _cannot_ get it on in here. If you get your jizz on any surface in this room, I will fucking kill you. Do you understand me?”

George feels his face heat up, but he nods and smiles sheepishly. “Yeah.”

“Good.” Lafayette’s face softens then and he leans forward. “Okay, now, before we go and get all formal again, is he good in bed?”

George’s mouth falls open in surprise and he throws his head back and laughs. “Jesus, Gilbert. Yes, he’s very good in bed, you stupid perv.”

Lafayette grins and smirks. “I’m happy for you, George. You deserve someone who can… who can love you and appreciate you properly. You’re a good man, George. I couldn’t ask for a better friend.” 

George is momentarily choked up and has to swallow past the lump in his throat. “Thank you, Gilbert. I can say the same about you.”

Lafayette stands up and George does too. They hesitate for a second before Lafayette walks over and pulls him into a hug. 

“I love you, George.”

“I love you too.”

Lafayette pulls out of the hug and grins. “Lets go get this bastard and prove John Adams wrong.”

“Gladly.”

Lafayette throws his arm around George’s shoulders and they walk to the Sit Room together. When they reach the door, Lafayette drops his arm and nods. “Ready Mr. President?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” 

George walks into the room and everyone clambers to their feet. He nods and motions for them to sit down. 

He momentarily catches Alex’s eyes and winks, giving him a small smile. Alex nods and returns the smile. Lafayette reaches over and squeezes Alex’s shoulder.

“Mr. President,” Lee says. “If you’re ready, I’d like to begin the briefing.”

“Go ahead, General. What’re we looking at?”

** \--- **

The video is distorted and hard to make out, tinted green from the night-vision, but they can clearly watch the SEALs as they make their way through the thin corridors of the compound. 

The briefing lasted several hours, and George has since removed his tie and rolled up his sleeves. Everyone else has followed suit. He can feel sweat trickling down his forehead, and the hairs at the back of his neck are standing on end. 

The SEALs talk to each other as they creep slowly through the dark. George has to momentarily look away, the whole situation a painful reminder of his time in the military. 

The sound of the rapid, prattling of a machine gun jerks his attention back to the screen. His stomach drops and his fingers start to tingle. 

“What’s happening?” George says, standing up nervously. “What’s going on?”

The screen is a confusing mess as the SEALs scramble and fire back. The room is filled with the sound of gunfire and the disgruntled shouts of the SEALs and their opponents. 

“Three men down.” 

It feels like the air gets sucked out of the room, and George drops back into his chair. His heart beat thuds loudly in his ears and he feels sick. 

“Dammit.” He leans forward and holds his head in his hands. 

The SEALs keep pressing forward, but the words “three men down” are unbearably loud in his head, taking up too much space for other thoughts to form. 

When the SEALs find Kinyazi, George watches them shoot him in the head, watches the tiny dot start to leak blood. Next to him, Lafayette makes a disgusted noise and turns his head, but George keeps watching. He watches as the SEALs approach Kinyazi and jostle his dead body, watches as the blood oozes, running down his face like a spilled can of paint. 

The remaining three SEALs make it to the helicopter, lugging the dead SEALs’ and Kinyazi’s bodies with them. George feels numb, unable to celebrate his victory. Three men are dead because of his orders. 

Sure he’s killed people before, but that was an order given to him. Those men were boys like himself, yes, but they were the enemy, the opponent. George could compartmentalize his killing, cease to think about the men he killed as anything other than dangers to America. 

He still wakes up from horrible nightmares filled with images of their mangled faces. Compartmentalization did him no favors in the long run. 

But these three men? They were Americans, and George just ordered them to die. He put them in this situation and now they’re dead. 

“Sir,” Randolph says slowly. “By all accounts, Operation Hornet's Nest was a success.”

George snaps his head up and fixes Randolph with a hard stare. 

“A success?” he asks icily. “Three Americans are _dead_.”

“Yes Sir, but we succeeded in our mission. Kinyazi is dead.”

George clenches his fists and takes a deep breath. 

“I need to make a statement, and I need to write to these men’s families. Will someone get me their information please?” 

“Your address is almost ready, Sir,” Alex says. “I just need to add in the details.”

“And I’ll get you those names, Mr. President,” Lafayette says softly. 

George nods and stands. He hopes no one notices how badly his hands are shaking. 

“Thank you, to everyone.”

John Adams is glaring at him, a somewhat smug smile on his face, and it makes George’s blood boil. “Everyone is free to go,” he says, “except John. I’d like to speak to you for a second, Mr. Vice President.”

Everyone quickly hurries out, but Adams stays standing behind his chair, his hands curled over the back. 

“Do you need something, Mr. President?” Adams asks, feigning innocence. George growls and stalks over to Adams. He straightens his back, pulling himself up to his full stature. He towers over Adams. 

“I need you to wipe that smug look of your face,” George snaps. “Three of our men are dead, and you’re acting like it’s some victory for you.” George slams his fist down on the table. “They’re _dead_ , and you think it’s what? Some game? That this is _funny_?” Adams flinches and takes a tiny step back. George practically snarls, just short of baring his teeth like an angry dog. “Did I prove you right, John? You gonna go laugh with all your buddies about how inept and stupid I am? How I’m just a child pretending to be president?” 

“Sir, I mean no offense. I’m glad the mission succeeded.”

“I don’t think you are,” George says. “I think you wanted me to fail. I know you’re happy about those three dead Americans. You still haven’t managed to get that stupid, smug look off of your face.” 

“I would never root for you to fail, Sir,” Adams says evenly, meeting George’s eyes with a piercing glare. George laughs sarcastically, shaking his head. 

“You think I’m scared of you? That you can bully me into doing what you want?” George laughs harder, tossing his head back. “You’re dumber than I thought.” George turns to leave when Adams grabs his wrist.

“I suggest you watch your mouth, young man,” he snaps. George rips his arm from Adams’ grasp and spins around. 

“Fuck you, you patronizing son of a bitch,” George snarls. “Fuck you.” 

“I wonder what the press would think about this kind of conduct, Mr. President?”

George almost punches him in the face. He manages to stop himself by sheer force of will. 

“You won’t leak this to the press,” George says, his voice low. He turns and walks to the door. “Have a nice night, Mr. Vice President,” he calls over his shoulder. 

His legs can’t carry him to the Oval Office fast enough, and he feels dizzy and disoriented. The West Wing seems to blur past him as he shakily navigates himself through the labyrinth of hallways. 

When he finally gets back to his office, several folders are waiting for him on his desk. 

They’re the dead SEALs’ files. 

George opens the first one and starts reading, his vision blurring with tears. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah sorry this chapter was so intense. The next chapter probably will be too... oops.


	3. The Aftermath

“Washington! What are you doing?” 

“Monroe is still in there, Sir. I have to go get him.”

“Washington; get your ass over here.”

A sniper’s bullets pepper the ground by George’s feet and he jumps out of the way, pressing his back against the wall. 

“I _can’t_ ,” he shouts, his voice cracking. “Monroe is still in there.” A bomb blast off to their right causes George to stumble and he nearly loses his balance. A cloud of dust descends on the market square and George coughs, desperately trying to cover his eyes and mouth. 

His lieutenant glares at George. “Fine. Go. I’m falling back with my men.” 

George tries to wipe away some of the mud on is face, a caked on mixture of dirt and his sweat. He double checks that his gun is loaded and takes a deep breath. He crouches down and runs as fast as he can, focusing like a laser on the door in front of him. 

Bullets wiz past him, sharp whistles that send pebbles raining down on him where they hit the wall above his head. 

He’s so close that he can almost reach out and touch the busted doorframe when his side seems to catch fire, a sharp, burning pain that almost makes him black out. His hand instinctually grabs the spot, and he can feel his thick blood seeping through his uniform. 

George almost gives up right there, imagines himself falling to the ground and curling into a ball, letting them shoot him until he’s dead, but he shakes his head and keeps moving. He shoves the pain to the back of his mind, grits his teeth, and dives forward. The walls of the now pillaged house provide him with some coverage as he stumbles over dead bodies and debris. 

James is right where he left him—slumped in the corner. His uniform is soaked in blood and it’s started to pool in the dirt beside him. 

“James,” George gasps as he falls to his knees beside him. “James; I’ve got you. It’s okay. I’ve got you.” George tries his best not to touch James’ wound as he hoists him up into the fireman’s carry. James grunts and moans anyway. 

George can feel James’ blood soaking the back of his neck as he carries him. The tangy, metallic smell is overwhelming and George gags as he runs. 

When he finally staggers to where the rest of his company is waiting, hidden among the rocks, Nate rushes forward to take James from him. George falls to his knees and takes a deep breath. He watches as Nate lays James down on his back. 

“Washington,” Nate says after a few long seconds, looking at him with pity. “Monroe is dead.”

 

George gasps and sits up, a scream dying on his lips. His legs are tangled in the sheets and he’s drenched in sweat. He struggles to take deep breaths as his heart hammers in his chest. 

It’s his fourth nightmare in a row. He hasn’t slept through the night since Operation Hornet’s Nest. 

He blindly gropes for his cellphone and opens it, squinting at the bright light. It’s a little before five in the morning. George groans. He finally managed to fall asleep around two. So almost three hours of sleep. That’s no big deal; he’s survived on less sleep than that. 

He takes his time getting ready, and when he leaves his bedroom, Harriet, a member of the White House staff, walks up to him. 

“Good morning, Mr. President,” she says pleasantly. 

“Hi Harriet,” George says as he fixes his cuff links. “No breakfast this morning, okay? I’ll just take some coffee in the office.” 

Harriet narrows her eyes and bites her lip. “Are you sure, Mr. President? You know that Simon and Javier can make you anything you want. They’d even make you cake for breakfast,” she teases. George manages a small smile but shakes his head.

“Just the coffee this morning. Thanks though.” 

“Of course, Mr. President.” She hesitates for a second, her eyes flickering to his bedroom door. “Would you like me to change the sheets again this morning?”

George feels his face heat up and he looks away. “Yes please.” 

“Have a nice day, Mr. President. I’ll tell the kitchen to have someone send you some coffee to the Oval.”

“Thanks Harriet. You have a nice day too.”

Betsy is already at her desk when George gets downstairs, and he manages a smile for his secretary. “Good morning, Betsy. You’re here bright and early.”

“I had to take Josh to school, so I figured I might as well come in.” She shrugs and looks up.

“You should bring him in the next time he has a day off. He seems like a very bright boy.” 

Betsy smiles and nods. “He would like that. He asks about you a lot.” Betsy chuckles as she hands George his schedule. He quickly reads over it and nods. 

“Well tell him I said hello for me.”

“Will do, Mr. President. Have a nice day.”

“Thanks Betsy.” George goes into the office and sits down, steeling himself for a long day full of meetings with stuffy men who hate him but pretend not to for political reasons. 

His coffee is waiting for him, prepared just the way he likes it: Black with one sugar. He takes a cautious sip and blows on it to try and cool it down.

There’s a knock on the door and George sits up a little straighter. “Come in.” 

Angelica walks in and closes the door behind her. She looks at him and immediately purses her lips. 

“Sir, not to be rude, but you look like shit.” 

George laughs and motions for Angelica to sit. “Thank you. I appreciate your painful honesty.”

Angelica shrugs and crosses her legs. “Lafayette and I just got out of a meeting with Senator Jefferson to see if Madison and him would consider supporting James Wilson as our Supreme Court nominee, but they seemed pretty adamant about voting no.”

“He hasn’t even had any hearings and they’re already vowing to oppose him?”

“That’s politics for you,” Angelica says ruefully, shrugging. “I just thought I’d let you know.”

George sighs and rubs his face. “Alright, thank you Angelica. It seems like everyone is starting early today.”

“They wanted an early meeting before their morning round of golf.” Angelica rolls her eyes. 

George picks up his coffee and takes a couple of long sips. When he looks up, Angelica is watching him closely. He has to fight the urge to squirm. “Is there something else you need, Angelica?”

“Are you sleeping alright, Mr. President?”

“Of course,” George says automatically. 

“Are you eating?”

“You all had lunch with me yesterday, remember?” 

“That doesn’t answer my question, Sir.” 

George looks away and chews on his lip. “I haven’t had much of an appetite lately,” he says slowly. “But I’m fine. I’m sure it’ll pass.” 

Angelica sighs. “Okay. Thank you, Mr. President.”

George nods and diverts his attention back to his work. 

He works for a couple of hours before there’s another knock on the door. “Come in.” 

Alex sticks his head in and grins. “Good morning, Mr. President,” he says. George immediately smiles. 

“Hi Alex.”

Alex walks over to his desk and sets a brown paper bag down. “I got you a blueberry muffin from that bakery you really like.” 

George manages to maintain a smile, but just the thought of food makes him feel a little sick. 

“Thanks sweetheart. That was very thoughtful.”

Alex gives him a funny look and walks around the desk. He lays the back of his hand on George’s forehead. “Are you sick?” he asks. “You’re not looking so hot, George. 

George smirks and pulls Alex into his lap. “Gee, you’re really doing wonders for my self esteem this morning.” 

Alex squirms out of his grasp and stands back up. He looks kind of pissed. 

“George I’m serious,” he says. “Angelica mentioned to me that you said you haven’t had much of an appetite lately, and you look exhausted. What’s going on? We’re all worried about you.”

“I’m fine,” George says a little irritatedly. “I don’t need my staff babysitting me. We’ve got a country to run.” 

Alex crosses his arms and narrows his eyes. “So this has nothing to do with the three SEALs coming home in their coffins today?” 

George winces, and Alex gives him a smug looks. “That’s what I thought.” 

“I’m fine,” he repeats, struggling to keep his voice even. 

“You can’t keep feeling guilty about this, George. This is going to happen again. People are going to die because of your orders, and you need to learn to accept that. You can’t get super depressed every time there’s a military operation.”

“I can’t help it.”

Alex’s face softens and he cups George’s cheek, gently rubbing George’s skin with the soft pad of his thumb. 

“I know.” Alex sighs and leans over to kiss George’s head. “Sometimes I wish you weren’t so damn sensitive and caring,” Alex jokes. 

“Yeah,” George says quietly. “Look, I’ve got a lot of work today. I’ll see you later, okay?”

“For lunch. I made sure Betsy penciled in another staff lunch today.” 

George sighs and tries not to roll his eyes. “You don’t have to babysit me.”

“Eat your muffin,” Alex calls over his shoulder as he walks out of the office. 

George takes the muffin and gives it to Lafayette. 

\---

“Mr. President” Alex says around a mouth of food, “if we want to get Wilson confirmed, then the Senate Democrats are just gonna have to go with the nuclear option. It’s the only way to end a filibuster.”

“That’s so distasteful, though. It makes us look conniving.”

“Sir, politicians are, by nature, conniving,” Lafayette says before taking an enthusiastic bite of his sandwich. 

“He’s not wrong, Sir,” Angelica says, shrugging. She politely eats her salad, a stark contrast to Alex. He’s currently shoving his sandwich in his face like he’s never eaten food before. 

George picks at his salad, pushing a cherry tomato around with his fork. 

“If the press asks, should I tell them we’re prepared to go nuclear? Or should I hold off?” Burr asks. 

“Don’t tell them yet. We still don’tknow if we’re going to need it. We may be able to sway George Clinton or Henry Laurens onto our side. Then we’d have the votes to hold off a filibuster.”

“George Clinton?” Alex laughs, shaking his head. “Sir, that spineless bastard wouldn’t break with the Republican Party if you paid him to do it. Jefferson has him wrapped around his little finger. George Clinton is literally Jefferson’s bitch. I’m surprised he doesn’t wear around a collar.”

Lafayette bursts out laughing and nearly chokes on his water. Alex gives him a few thumps on the back. “Damn, don’t choke, Laf,” he laughs. 

George watches all of this with an amused smile. He likes being around his senior staff—they always manage to put him at ease.

“Sir, are you finished with your salad?” 

George looks up as a member of the staff—Harrison, maybe?—walks up and motions to his mostly uneaten salad. 

“Oh, uh, yeah. Thanks.”

“Of course, Sir.” He takes George’s plate away, and Angelica glares at him. 

“Are you sure you’re not still hungry, Sir?” she asks innocently. “I’m sure the kitchen could make you something else.”

George shakes his head. “I’m fine. If you’ll all excuse me, I’m actually going to go back to the Oval and try to get some more work done. I’ve got to be at the airbase in a few hours.” He makes sure to keep his expression neutral when he says it, even though the words twist like a knife in his stomach.

George stands, and they all move to stand as well, but he waves them down. “I’ll see you all later. Aaron, don’t forget to tamp down any rumors of the nuclear option. I really don’t want anyone catching wind of that just yet.”

He leaves the private dining room and goes back into the Oval, glancing warily at the large stack of folders waiting for him on his desk. 

He gets about 30 peaceful minutes to read before someone interrupts him. There’s a knock on the door, and George sighs, leaning back and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Come in.”

George immediately softens when Alex sticks his head in. 

“Hey; you got a second?”

“For you? Always,” George says a little teasingly. Alex rolls his eyes and walks in. He’s holding a cupcake in each hand. One looks like carrot cake, and the other looks like chocolate. 

“I brought you a cupcake. Someone on my staff… Samantha I think… She brought a whole box of them. I thought I’d eat mine with you. I got your favorite.” Alex waggles his eyebrows and sets the carrot cake cupcake on George’s desk. 

“First a muffin, now a cupcake? You trying to make me fat or something?” 

“Oh shut up Mr. Healthy. Everyone on earth knows you have a giant sweet tooth. Don’t think I didn’t see you eat entire big ass bags of gummy bears on the campaign bus when you thought no one was looking.”

George laughs and shrugs. “Don’t worry; I always paid for it later. I got so many stomachaches.”

Alex sits on the couch and takes the paper off of his cupcake. He immediately takes a huge bite and nods his head in appreciation. 

“This a damn good cupcake.”

“Don’t get crumbs on the couch.”

“I won’t, _Mom_ ,” Alex says. He glances at George’s untouched cupcake. “C’mon, take a break and eat your cupcake with me.” 

“I’m not really in the mood for a cupcake. I’ll save it for later.”

“When are you ever not in the mood for something sweet and tasty?” Alex asks, crumbs flying as he talks with his mouth full. 

“Will you ever learn to chew before you talk?”

Alex narrows his eyes and waves his hand dismissively. “Don’t deflect my question with your chastisement,” Alex says lightheartedly. 

George heaves a sigh and picks up his cupcake. He sets it down on the coffee table and flops down on the couch next to Alex. 

“I promise I’ll have the cupcake later.”

“You mean you’re going to go give it to Lafayette after I leave?” Alex looks over at George and gives him a pointed look. “I wish you would just tell me what’s wrong.” Alex finishes his cupcake and tucks one of his legs underneath himself. “I mean, you’re so _frustrating_ sometimes. We all get together and scheme about what might possibly be wrong with you today. Is he feeling depressed? Is he worried? Is he stressed? It’s like some sick guessing game, George.”

“I’m sorry,” George says quietly. 

Alex groans in frustration. “God and there you go with your stupid hurt puppy dog look and your sad, guilty voice.” 

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” George says exasperatedly.

“I want you to talk to me. I want you to tell me how you’re feeling. I feel like I’m always having to drag it out of you. The only time you willingly tell me how you’re feeling is when you’re having some melt down or crisis.”

“That’s not true.”

“But it _is_ ,” Alex says. “I mean, sure, you’ll tell me you’re nervous about something, but I know that’s just scratching the surface. Why can’t you just talk to me?”

“Because it’s hard for me,” George says truthfully. “I don’t like confronting my emotions and I’m horrible at dealing with them.” 

“Okay, well, can you at least tell me a little about what you’re feeling? Or what’s wrong? You’re not acting normal, George, and you look horrible.”

“I’m… I’ve been having lots of war nightmares the past few days. They make it hard to fall asleep and stay asleep.”

“See? That wasn’t that hard, was it? Why don’t you talk to your fancy presidential doctor and see if he can prescribe you something to help you sleep?”

“I don’t know.”

“I really think you should, honey. It’s obvious that you’re not feeling well.” 

George shrugs and stands up, leaving his cupcake sitting on the table. “I really need to get this reading done before I go greet the coffins.”

Alex sighs and picks up the cupcake. “Does Lafayette like carrot cake?”

“No, but I think Angelica does.” 

George sits back down and opens the folder back up to where he left off. 

“I’ll see you later. Good luck with the SEALs,” Alex says before leaving. 

George holds his head in his hands for a few minutes before getting back to work. 

\---

George greets the SEALs’ widows on the tarmac. They hug him and thank him for coming, which makes him feel guilty and sick to his stomach. He’s the reason that these women are here.

Their children are also here—small boys and girls who don’t really understand what’s happening. George squats down and talks to them, tries to muster up a smile at their carefree attitudes. He envies how oblivious they can be. 

The plane lands on the landing strip, and the air around them seems to vibrate. The plane bounces down on the ground with a boom that reminds George of a bomb. 

George beckons the women forward, patting one on the back. He takes slow breaths, trying to keep his face hard and neutral. When the hatch opens, he snaps to a salute. One of the women standing next to him sobs. 

Fellow soldiers carry the flag draped coffins off the plane and George swallows, frozen in his rigid salute. The women surge forward and tentatively touch the coffins, leaning their foreheads on them as if they can reach their husbands that lay still and cold inside them. 

George finally lowers his salute and nods at the soldiers. Their faces are hard, but some of their eyes are wet with unshed tears. He hovers back, not wanting to infringe on the these families last time together. George sent these men to their deaths and now he’s watching their families fall apart.

He blinks to clear his vision and clenches his fists, his nails digging crescents into his soft palms. He watches one woman pick up her son so he can stroke his father’s coffin. George is struck with the need to flee. His body is urging him to leave, to get out of here and not look back. He takes a deep, calming breath and counts in his head, forces himself to focus on the numbers.

“Sir.” Tallmadge walks up to him and touches George’s elbow gently. “We need to go back to the White House.”

George nods numbly, unable to tear his eyes away from the three coffins. Tallmadge gently nudges him and holds onto his forearm. “Come on, Mr. President,” he says softly. “Lets go.” 

George follows Tallmadge, but he feels like he’s floating. 

He leans his head against the car window, the glass cool and soothing against his forehead.

Everything is a blur. He moves from one place to another—the car, the White House entrance, the Oval Office. 

He doesn’t know how he got here. There’s a glass of water waiting for him and he drinks it eagerly. Betsy reminds him what’s on his schedule for the afternoon: A meeting with the French ambassador, his national security briefing, a meeting with the Congressional Black Caucus, a meeting with his communications team. He is partially aware that he’s present for all of these events; he thinks that he talks during them, but he can’t be sure. 

Lafayette, Angelica, and he meet with Judge Wilson and discuss his upcoming Supreme Court hearings. 

He brushes off Angelica and Lafayette’s prying questions, gives them his most convincing smiles. 

He realizes that it’s like he’s submerged underwater. Everything is muted and distorted. There’s a barrier between him and everyone else, but he’s the only one who can see it. He’s deep below the surface. He can see it above him, feel how he straddles the water’s temperature, his legs cold and his arms warm. He is in the middle of the gradient, crystal blue above and a dark navy below. If he reaches his hands up he can just barely skim the surface, but he can’t quite break through. He yearns to feel the breeze on his fingers, but he’s too deep and no one knows it. No one dives in after him. 

Then Alex is there staring down through the water at him, perched on the deck of a small boat. He has a dive suit on and when he jumps in, his lean body easily slices the surface of the water. Air bubbles fill the water around them as Alex grabs George’s arm and tugs on him. When George finally breaks the surface, he coughs and frantically treads water. Alex’s hands are gentle and calming; he helps pull George onto the deck of the boat. It rocks nauseatingly, but the breeze is cool and the sun is warm, and George decides it’s a good, pleasant dichotomy. 

He looks at Alex with wide eyes, feels his hand on his forehead and his cheek, squeezing the back of his neck, roaming all over his too-tight skin. 

“George, honey, are you okay?” 

“I don’t know.” 

The sounds of the world are finally clear around him. He can breathe a little easier. 

“I think you need to lie down.”

“I can’t take a break in the middle of the day.”

Alex frowns and he feels George’s forehead again. “It’s almost seven, George. I came in to see if I could stay and eat dinner with you. Come on, I think you’re finished for the day. Lets go to the Residence.”

“Someone will see you.”

“Almost everyone is gone for the day. Even Lafayette went home a couple of hours ago. I think Adrienne and him are having some kind of grossly sweet, heterosexual date night.” 

Alex pulls George out of his chair and they walk to the Residence. Alex asks Harriet to bring dinner to the bedroom instead of the dining room. He orders for George, but George doesn’t pay attention. He lays down on the bed and lets out a heavy sigh. 

“Hey,” Alex says softly. “I got you some toast.” He tugs George’s shoes off for him and carries them to his closet. He comes back out a few moments later with one of George’s old Virginia Law t-shirts and his favorite pair of sweatpants. “You should change into something a little comfier.” 

George nods and undresses himself numbly. He pulls on the clothes Alex hands him and promptly lays back down. 

“Thanks.” It’s all he can manage to say.

“George… I think I’m gonna stay the night. Everyone who works up here is discrete. Harriet knows and so does Tallmadge and Tilghman. They’re all loyal.”

Alex disappears into his closet and comes out in one of George’s t-shirts and a pair of athletic shorts that he has to cinch up a ridiculous amount. 

There’s a knock on the door and Alex disappears again. He comes back with a tray full of food. He carefully sets it down on the bedside table. 

George sits up and Alex hands him a plate with a piece of plain toast. 

Alex digs into a cheeseburger. Just the smell of it makes George feel nauseous. He forces himself to eat the toast, and it settles like a brick in his stomach. 

“Laf said the meeting with Wilson went well,” Alex says conversationally. “I really like him. He’s gonna make a great Justice.”

George just makes a small noise of agreement. Alex frowns and falls silent. He finishes his cheeseburger and takes the plates and tray outside, leaving them next to the door.

“You should’ve seen those women’s faces,” George says softly. Alex crawls into the bed beside him. 

“The widows?”

“Yeah. They thanked me. I don’t understand why.”

“Presidents don’t normally greet coffins.”

“It’s the least I could do.”

Alex wraps his arms around George and kisses his shoulder. “This is why I love you.” 

“I don’t know if I can do this for eight years.”

“Hey, don’t say that. It’s rough right now, but remember how good it felt when we passed that gun control bill? That was such a rush. There’ll be a lot of shitty times, but there’s also gonna be times that are amazing. I personally think the good will outweigh the bad.”

George shrugs and lays down, pulling the blankets up to his neck. “I don’t remember the last time I went to bed at eight,” he says bitterly. 

“It’s fine. I might do some work, but I’ll sit at the desk so it doesn’t keep you awake.”

“Don’t stay up to late.” George closes his eyes and relaxes as Alex flips the lights off. 

“You’re such a mom,” Alex retorts. “I love you.”

“Love you too.”

\---

George wakes up with his arms wrapped around Alex and his face pressed into the crook of his neck. He breathes in the sweet smell of Alex’s day-old cologne and lets himself lay there for just a little while. 

There was no nightmare last night, and he still doesn’t feel great, but it’s an improvement. 

Beside him, Alex makes a snuffling noise and stretches, pulling out of George’s arms. George sits up against the headboard and smiles. 

“Good morning sweetheart.” 

Alex looks over at him and smiles sleepily. “Hey. You sleep alright?”

“Yeah; I did actually.” 

“Damn. I’m just that good I guess,” Alex says, smirking. George laughs and pushes some of Alex’s hair out of his face.

“Yeah; you’re alright.” 

Alex sticks his tongue out and pokes George’s side. 

George pokes him right back, digging in just a little. Alex yelps in surprised and shoves at George’s shoulder. 

“Hey! You better watch it old man,” Alex says in mock seriousness. “You may be bigger than me, but I happen to know that you’re like embarrassingly ticklish, and I’m not afraid to use that against you. If you try to fight me, I will definitely, 100% win.”

“Is that a challenge?” George asks, raising his eyebrows.

“Yes, and since I play to win, loser has to give the winner a blow job.”

“Hate to break it to you, but that’s kind of a win-win situation, sweetheart.”

“I’m just trying to throw you a bone. I don’t want to make you have to do something horrible after you lose, because like I said, you’re losing this so hard.”

“Oh am I?” George asks as he moves to roll over on top of Alex, pinning him down. Alex’s mouth pops open in surprise and George smirks. “You of all people should know that I never lose, baby,” George whispers in Alex’s ear. 

“George,” Alex practically whines. 

“Yeah?” George kisses Alex’s jaw before moving to place sloppy kisses on Alex’s neck, grazing his teeth over Alex’s pulse point. George grins when he feels Alex’s erection poking the inside of his thigh, right by his own, already half-heard cock. 

“You’re the worst,” Alex playfully mutters as he snakes his arm under George and cups his cock through his pants. He groans and grinds down into Alex’s hand. 

“No, that would be you,” George gasps out as Alex pushes his hand inside George’s sweatpants. He squeezes George’s shaft and chuckles when George drops his head onto Alex’s shoulder. 

“Roll over baby,” Alex purrs in his ear. “I’ve gotta give you your prize.” 

George immediately rolls off of Alex to lay on his back. He lifts his hips up and shoves his sweatpants down. Alex pushes George’s legs apart and settles down on his knees. He looks up at George with hooded eyes as he takes George’s cock into his mouth. George makes an embarrassing, high-pitched keening noise and clenches the sheets in his fists.

“Fuck, Alex, baby,” he pants. “You’re so fucking good, got such a pretty mouth.”

Alex hums around George’s cock as he sucks his cheeks in and squeezes one of George’s balls. George arches his back and a low moan rumbles in his throat. Alex pulls his mouth off and licks a long stripe up the length of George’s cock and flickers his tongue over the tip, lapping up the precum already leaking out. 

Heat burns low in George’s belly and he can feel his legs shaking. When Alex licks one of George’s balls into his mouth he almost screams.

Alex licks another long stripe up George’s cock with the flat of his tongue and sucks on the tip, swirling his tongue around it while stroking the rest of George’s cock.. George reaches down and taps Alex’s head quickly.

“I’m close,” he pants. Alex hums and just sucks harder, hollowing out his cheeks. 

George’s cock twitches and he comes hard, spilling down Alex’s throat.

Alex pulls his lips off of George’s cock and looks at him. His lips are red and swollen, shinny with saliva, and his pupils are blown. The baggy athletic shorts he’s wearing are pulled tight since he’s on his knees, and his erection is tenting the thin material. 

George shakily manages to push himself up and motions Alex to come forward. Alex crawls on his hands and knees, shoving the shorts and boxers off and kicking them onto the ground.

“Let me help you out, sweet boy,” George murmurs. Alex sits next to him and George takes Alex’s heavy cock into his hand. He swirls his thumb in Alex’s precum and starts to jack him slowly—long, languid strokes that make Alex whimper. He shoves into George’s hand, desperate for more friction, but George shakes his head. “Don’t go too fast,” George says in his ear. 

“George, please,” Alex says, moaning. George grins and starts to pump Alex a little quicker. He leans in and sucks a hickey low on Alex’s neck where it’ll be covered by his collar. Alex is panting and chanting George’s name like it’s only the word he knows, and George can tell he’s getting close. 

“Let me see you come, baby boy,” George whispers in his ear. 

Alex groans and spills hot come onto his stomach and George’s hand. George carefully strokes him through his orgasm. 

“God, George,” Alex pants. “You’re so fucking hot.”

George grins and gets up to get something to clean up with. He wipes himself off and brings Alex a warm washcloth. He gently mops up Alex’s stomach and leans over to kiss him gently. 

“Do you think the country would mind if we stayed in bed all day?” Alex asks when George flops back down. He rolls over and props himself up on his elbow and laughs. 

“I think they probably would.” 

“It’s still weird to me what a dom you are,” Alex says teasingly. “Of course you are sort of a control freak, so it makes a lot of sense that you’d like control in bed.”

George rolls his eyes. “Traditional sex roles are stupid.”

“Wow, look at you Mr. Woke PC Culture.”

“Oh fuck off,” George laughs.

There’s a knock on the door and they both look over. 

“It’s time to get up Mr. President,” Harriet says through the door. Then, after a brief pause, “that means you too, Alexander.” 

George and Alex both bust out laughing.

As they get in the shower, George smiles to himself. Even though he didn’t have a nightmare and sweat all over his sheets, Harriet will definitely have to change them again this morning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to end it on a happy note b/c this has been a doozy. Thanks for all the comments; it means a lot and makes writing a lot more fun knowing that people are enjoying it!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always appreciated!


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